


Eyes on the Road

by Phoebe_Hunter



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Cheap Hotels, M/M, Past Chris Argent/Peter Hale, Road Trips, Shagging, Snark, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-30
Updated: 2015-08-30
Packaged: 2018-04-18 02:17:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4688732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phoebe_Hunter/pseuds/Phoebe_Hunter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You’re quieter than you used to be,” Peter says.</p><p>“Maybe I just don’t like you.”</p><p>Or: Stiles is tasked with covertly ferrying a certain werewolf across the country. Things don't go as planned. Or at least, not as Stiles planned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eyes on the Road

**Author's Note:**

> Another fic I've been playing with for *ages* and I need to post before it drives me mad. 
> 
> I started writing it pre-S5, but I think it's canon-compliant at the moment, although it takes place a few years down the track. 
> 
> There was initially more plot, but then I took it out and made it all sketchy and suggestive instead. Sorry. I just love the idea of Stiles and Peter being forced to spend a lot of time together in an enclosed space. Any plot is really secondary to that primary goal. And there is smexin', which should make up for the lack of plot. 
> 
> Typos may about. I tried. But I kept rewriting it in different tenses. 
> 
> Comments are very much loved.

Stiles should have said no, no question about it. He’d been enjoying the sultry summer evenings, the sunlight creeping through the curtains to dapple the carpet in gold. The sleepy, languid feeling that came with no obligations, no assignments, no responsibilities. Bullying his dad to eat more vegetables. Taking the Jeep out into the woods.

He should have said no, but he’s never been very good at saying no to Scott, which is how he ends up with 150 pounds of homicidal werewolf in his passenger seat at the beginning of a ten day trip to the-GPS-knows-where instead of enjoying his I-survived-my-second-year-of-college-without-being-eaten-by-anything-or-catching-a-venereal-disease holiday.

Peter stares out the window with shadowed blue eyes that are a little darker than Stiles remembers them.  The angles of his are sharper, too, and the tshirt gapes a little to expose the jut of his collarbones.

Peter doesn’t look at the chain around Stiles’ neck. The pendant hangs heavy against Stiles’ chest, glistening blue in the streetlights. A leash, Deaton called it. And Stiles wonders what that’s like for a man whose been burned and buried and locked up, what it’s like for Peter to reach for something that isn’t there anymore, something that Stiles is keeping at his throat like an love charm.

“You’re quieter than you used to be,” Peter says.

“Maybe I just don’t like you.”

 

-

 

Peter certainly isn’t the worst travelling companion Stiles has ever had. He doesn’t smell, he doesn’t need to stop for the bathroom every half an hour, and he allows Stiles to pick the music with only minimal sarcasm. He keeps quiet, but the smirk playing on the corners of his lips tells Stiles that’s a game too – he’s waiting to see whether Stiles will crack, how many hours of the hum of the engine and the jangle of the radio Stiles can take before he has to talk to  _someone_.

About eight hours, it turns out.

“So, no wolf powers. That must suck.”  

Peter gives him an amused glance. “What do you think?”

“What’s it like?” And yes, he’s asking partly to piss Peter off, but he’s curious as well.

Peter’s fingers drum absently against the dashboard. “Like losing a limb," he shoots Stiles a glance that is somewhere between mischievous and malicious. "Or your mind."

 

-

 

Stiles is going to have a serious word to Chris Argent about hotel selection, because the place they stay on the first night is so dilapidated Stiles has concerns about falling straight through the floor. The twin beds are much too close together and the bathroom door doesn’t shut properly.

Stiles lies awake, staring up at the ceiling, trying to ignore the rumbling of passing trucks and the noise spilling up from the bar below.  “You know, for someone who’s supposed to be smart your plan for killing Scott was pretty dumb,” he says finally, not really caring whether Peter is awake or not.

Peter doesn’t respond immediately. “You think so?"

“I don’t get it though. Scott’s a true alpha. The whole point is that he didn’t steal it from anyone, he “rose by the strength of his own character” blah blah blah.” 

"Maybe I was bored."

"You were  _bored_?"

 Peter doesn’t respond.

 

-

 

There’s an enforced intimacy that comes with travelling together that Stiles will never get used to. He knows, now, how Peter takes his coffee (sweet and black), how long Peter stays in the shower (long enough to use all the hot water), what Peter prefers for breakfast (nothing that was on offer at the diner that morning), that Peter is fastidious about keeping his suitcase tidy, that Peter is a restless sleeper. He knows too many things about Peter already and they’ve only be on the road for a day and a bit.

“I must speak to Christopher about the quality of our accommodation,” Peter says as they check out (receiving, Stiles notes, a very disapproving look from the matronly woman behind the counter.

“You guys were at school together, right?” Stiles asks on the way to the car, not sure where that knowledge even comes from. A photo, perhaps, or names in a yearbook.

“Yes,” Peter agrees. "We were." There's something in his tone that makes Stiles glance at him.

 “Plenty of old grudges to work out once we arrive?”

“Nothing could be further from the truth." Peter tosses their bags into the boot of the car. "We were…close.”

 

-

 

“How close was close?” Stiles asks after two hours of talkback radio and three cups of coffee.

Peter stretches, rolls his shoulders, and gives Stiles a _look_. “Close enough

 You’re saying…you and Chris.”

“Is it that much of a surprise?” Peter’s smirking in a way Stiles knows is calculated to cause maximum aggravation.

“Well, it kinda is. ‘Cause of, you know, all the hatred. The killing. And so on.”

“I told you Scott wasn’t the first werewolf to climb into a hunter’s bed. Although, with Christopher and I…”

“I do  _not_ want to know,” Stiles says.

“Liar,” Peter says, and returns to his coffee.

 

 -

 

 Needling Peter is probably a Class A Bad Idea but Stiles can't help it. In Stiles’ defense, Peter gives as good as he gets (usually better).

“So teaming up with Kate, huh? Can’t say we saw that one coming. I guess war makes…what’s the word? Strange bedfellows.”

 For a moment Peter goes absolutely still, and Stiles think he might have finally gone too far.

“Speaking of bedfellows, are you still fucking my daughter?” Peter asks, after a few beats of silence, in the tone of a man enquiring about the weather. 

Stiles turns the radio up.

They both know a lot more about esoteric classical music and Australia’s indigenous fauna by the end of the day.

 

_-_

 

Stiles gets back into the car with a bag of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups and positions them between his knees for maximum consumption/driving efficiency.  

Peter stares at the bag for a moment with strange intensity.

“What? Stiles says.

“Laura used to like them.”

Stiles puts the car into gear and pulls out. “What was she like?” He asks on a whim. He doesn't expect a response.

Peter makes a soft, thoughtful noise. “She was…stubborn. Loyal to a fault. Didn’t take herself too seriously, which is a rarity in our family.” Peter was staring out the window, eyes hidden by his sunglasses. “She burnt anything she tried to cook but she was lethal with a kitchen knife.” His tone had softened. “She would have made a great alpha, in time.”

And there is  _really_  nothing Stiles can say to that.

 

-

 

"I could have dealt with them."

"I wanted them to move their car, I didn't want their body parts strewn all over the gas station."

"You’ve killed more people than I have. If we’re going to keep count.”

"The nogitsunekilled people. I was  _literally_ out of my mind.”

"It’s not that simple though is it, Stiles?” Peter’s voice is light. “Didn’t you ever wonder why the nogitsune picked you? Why not Scott or Allison?”   

 _"_ Never really thought about it," he says.

Peter didn't even bother to call him on the lie. “It was the same reason I offered you the bite. It could sense all the anger you keep under the surface. All that pain and rage  _straining_ against the leash you had on it. In Scott or Allison the nogitsune would have been dangerous. In you, it was…a masterpiece.”

 Stiles slackens his white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel. “Keep that up and I’ll take out some of that anger on your face.”

 

-

 

“Fuck!” It is the biggest spider Stiles had ever seen. Huge. Gargantuan.

Peter bursts out of the bathroom.  “What’s going on?”

“Spider!” Stiles yells, pointing. And then forgets about the spider because Peter is soaking wet and completely naked. His sopping hair is plastered to his skull and water is trickling down his torso and…Stiles is definitely not looking. Well, he’s looking at Peter’s face. Only his face.

Peter gives him a look that could peel paint. “I suppose I’m expected to deal with it?”

“I’m not going near it. It’s big enough to eat me.”

Peter advances on the spider.

"Don't kill it!" Stiles tells him. "Just…put it outside or something."

This time, the look is incredulous.

“And put some clothes on,” Stiles orders, ducking past Peter into the bathroom and slamming the door behind himself.

-

 

There is only one room left and it’s a double, not a twin. Stiles is so tired he doesn’t care anymore – doesn’t even protest when Peter takes the bed.  Peter toes his boots off, makes himself comfortable on the bed, flicks on the TV and yeah,  _Buffy_ reruns are definitely what Stiles needs.

“Shove over,” Stiles tells Peter. “I can’t see the TV down there.”

Peter obliges and Stiles flops down on the bed on his back, propping himself up on a pillow.

It starts as a feeling of awareness. A consciousness of the weight of Peter’s body beside his, the slow rise and fall of Peter’s chest, the warmth of Peter’s skin.

“Something the matter, Stiles?” Peter’s voice is quiet, but Stiles can hear his amusement.

“Nope,” Stiles shifts.

“Are you sure?”

Stiles inhales a noseful of Peter’s cologne – something spicy – and shifts again. “Yup.”

 

-

 

They’re three episodes in and Stiles isn’t quite surprised – not quite – when Peter rolls over, his legs on either side of Stiles’ thighs, his arms bracketing Stiles’ head.

Maybe later he’ll wonder _why_ he isn’t surprised. And why, for that matter, he doesn't smack Peter on the head and run for the hills.

But Peter’s mouth is very close to his, and all Stiles can focus on is the strip of flesh exposed by the neckline of Peter’s shirt.

Peter’s lips brush Stiles’, barely making contact, but Stiles feels it to his toes.

“Do you want me to stop?” Peter asks.

“I don’t know,” Stiles admits.

Peter chuckles. “Let me know if you make up your mind.

They trade long, languorous kisses until Stiles feels like his skin might burst into flame.

"Stop," he says.

And Peter does.

-

 

The whole thing takes on an air of hazy surrealism. Six days on the road and it all looks the same; same bitumen, same trucks, same scenery. But not quite the same scenery, because Stiles can’t stop shooting covert glances at Peter; Peter’s lips, the lick of skin exposed by Peter’s v-neck, the way Peter’s jeans fit…

“That’s very distracting, Stiles.”

“What?”

“You keep looking at me as though I’m edible.”

They stop at a truck stop for a greasy lunch and Stiles stocks up on snacks. He has to lean across Peter to get to the glovebox and, when he slips and loses his balance, he ends up with one hand on Peter’s thigh, the other braced against the dash. Desire hooks in his stomach, sudden and…not entirely unexpected. He’s close enough to Peter’s face to be able to see the individual eyelashes, the flecks of grey in the blue of his eyes.

“I am not fucking you in this car like a hormonal teenager,” Peter says.

“Who says you’re fucking me at all?”

Peter just smiles.

-

 

They stop earlier than usual. It's a motel like all the others – cheap sheets, creaky floors, Bible in a bedside draw. But the sudden tension when the door clicks shut is new; Stiles doesn't know where to put his hands or his feet, feels awkward and ungainly as a fifteen year old again.  

“So, Stiles.” Peter shrugs out of his shirt and drapes it over the back of an armchair Stiles wouldn’t sit if you paid him. “Have you made up your mind?”

Stiles’ mouth goes a little dry.

Peter does fuck him in the end, up against a wall which probably can't take the pressure. It is fast and hot and transcendently good; Peter’s tongue catching the sweat trickling down Stile’s throat, Peter’s fingers curling around Stiles' ass as Stiles shudders to completion. Probably too quickly, really, because it’s been a long time since Stiles has had anything but his own hand on his dick. Peter doesn’t seem to mind – he just bends Stiles over the little table with a view down to the dingy carpark and takes him again, long and hard and slow, until Stiles is scrabbling for purchase on the smooth wood.

Peter comes with his teeth set against the back of Stiles’ neck, his breath hot in Stiles’ ear.

-

 

“You can fuck me tonight,” Peter says, taking a sip of his coffee.

Stiles nearly drives off the road (and, in all honesty, thinks he could be forgiven for that). “What?”

Peter doesn’t repeat himself. He makes banal observations for the rest of the day, and bullies Stiles into playing a game of I Spy that nearly ends in a four car pile-up.  

He pins Stiles to the bed, later, and rides him until Stiles sees stars.  

-

 

They do fuck in the car in the end. Pulled over on a sidestreet in some tinpot town in what feels like the ass end of nowhere.  There isn’t really room but Stiles manages to straddle Peter’s lap, manages to get his hands in Peter’s hair and his tongue in Peter’s mouth. 

“I don’t know if we can…” Stiles says, his fingers on the button on Peter's jeans. 

But they can, and Stiles’ fingernails leave red half-moons on Peter’s biceps as Peter sets a rhythm just short of what Stiles wants. They need to be quick – anyone could walk past, and Stiles isn’t sure how he’d explain this one to his dad – but Peter is in no hurry, pinning Stiles’ wrists to his sides and driving into him until Stiles’ is a breath away from begging.

“Peter,” Stiles says, straining against Peter’s grip. He means  _please._

Peter’s grip tightens and he leans forward, catching Stiles’ earlobe with his teeth.

“Like this, Stiles. You’re going to come for me just like this.”

And Stiles does.

-

 

They nearly make it.

Nearly.

 _Nearly,_ Stiles thinks, as a boot connects with the side of his head. He tastes blood.

The world buckles.

 _Kill him,_ one of them says.

There’s blood in his eyes, as well. The charm is slick with blood between his fingers.

 _Be careful, Stiles,_ Deaton says in his head. _If you break it, his powers will be restored._

 _Kill him,_ one of them says again.

A gun cocks.

The splinters of the charm drive deep into Stiles’ thumb as it shatters.

 

-

 

There is blood on Peter’s lips, blood dripping from his fingers, and blood splattered across his face. He takes a step towards Stiles, and another, and Stiles backs up until he hits the wall. There is something feral in Peter’s eyes, a yawning blackness that made Stiles think of open doors and nails on chalkboards.

He does the only thing he can think of to do and tilts his head, baring his throat in submission. Fingers close around his neck, and he hopes that when they find his body they’ll all know how fucking  _pissed off_  he was right before he died.

The claws on Stiles’ neck blunt down to fingernails.

-

 

 Stiles opens his eyes. Peter’s bloody lips are a breath away from his. Peter’s fingers trail gently down the side of his throat, lingering for a moment where Stiles’ pulse is fluttering beneath his skin.

“You should be careful what you let of the leash,” Peter murmurs, fur and fangs melting away. His hand is still on Stiles’ throat.

Peter’s gaze drops to Stiles’ lips.

“I think we need a new hotel room,” Stiles says. Trying not to look.

“I,” Peter said calmly, “need a shower.”

 

-

 

They drive away from the hotel, hair still damp.

Chris’ people are dealing with the body.

 _Are you all right?_ He’d asked on the phone.

_Yes._

The question – _and Peter_ – hung between them, until it was too late for Chris to ask it.

Stiles rolls the windows down and lets the roar of the wind drown out any chance of conversation.

Peter whistles, softly, under his breath, drumming out a jaunty beat on the dashboard.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I don't even know.


End file.
